The rippling brook traverses the meadow, behind the barn. I hear the water tumbling over the remnants of a beaver dam, before I see it. But as I step tentatively on to the first board of the wooden plank bridge, It’s beauty is unfolded before me.
The turning leaves cling tenuously to the branches of the brook-side brambles, as if they know that once fallen, they will be carried downstream, never to be seen again. And yet they are so fleetingly lovely. Their beauty is ever more enhanced by the rivulet reflections.
So I stand here; listening, watching, thinking, and reflecting. Each year, this day is one for reflection and remembering a time when a little boy with red hair and blue eyes joined forces with his partner-in-crime to outsmart their older sister.
We miss you Matthew💌